Here Goes
by chzahradsfdas
Summary: On the day after April's funeral, Mark realizes what he's really getting into, helping Roger.


The day after April's funeral was one of the hardest days of my life.

Roger was a mess. He was like a lost puppy, looking for its owner. He was so jumpy, as if he expected April to be around every corner. I practically had to lead him through it, and he squeezed my hand as if it was his lifeline.

Which, it sort of was.

That was the day his withdrawal began.

It wasn't on purpose, at first, his getting clean. He was just too broken to get out and find a dealer. Of course, once he realized, he made me and Collins promise not to let him out. He wanted to quit.

The first days were the broken, lost-child days, the days when he clung to me and cried, or rambled on about nothing, or fell asleep in my arms. Those were the days when I fed him, or else he wouldn't eat, and I washed him and shaved his face, because he simply couldn't.

That first day was when I realized what I was getting into.

He was in desperate need of a shower. Of course, none of us wanted to go into the bathroom, because even though Collins had scrubbed it all out, and it only smelled like bleach now, none of us could go in without seeing April lying there.

But needs were needs, I told myself, and sent Roger into the room to bathe.

Of course, I didn't count on him refusing to go in without me.

Not in the shower, just in the room. I thought it was reasonable to not want to be alone in the room in which your girlfriend had committed suicide, so I let him go in and get undressed, then climb into the shower with the curtain closed, and then went in and sat on the toilet while he turned on the water.

And shrieked.

The water shut off almost immediately.

"What happened?" I asked, jumping to my feet.

"It looked re… re… red," he sobbed pitifully behind the curtain.

"Oh, Roger…" I sighed.

"Mark…?" His voice sounded almost scared.

"What is it?" I sat back down.

"I… I c… c… can't."

His voice sounded so scared and heartbroken and apologetic that my heart just broke.

"Roger, can I open the curtain?" I asked gently.

I heard some shuffling on the other side, then a feeble "yes" that sounded like it was coming from lower in the tub, so I knelt by the side of the tub and pushed the curtain open.

Roger was sitting in the tub, hugging his knees to his chest as tears ran down his face. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He just stared at the faucet.

I reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. He flinched at first, but relaxed as I gently stroked his back.

"Roger, I'm going to turn on the water now, okay?"

He said nothing for so long that I wasn't sure at first if he'd heard me. Then finally, a shuddering "okay."

I reached past him and turned on the water, hot and cold at once, so that it wouldn't shock him. It was an okay temperature to begin with, so I left it alone.

Nonetheless, he shivered when the water hit him. I don't think it was the temperature.

He still didn't move.

I picked up the soap and began to wash him, gently rubbing circles on his back. He leaned his head forward as I washed his neck and shoulders, then his arms. He didn't move out of the fetal position, so I left the rest of his body alone and started on his hair.

I squeezed some of the shampoo into my hands and started lathering his head. I glanced at him and saw that his eyes were closed. He leaned into my hands as I gently worked the shampoo into his hair.

I massaged his scalp for a while, as the stream of water from the shower head washed the shampoo away. Once I was sure that he was completely soap-free, I shut off the water.

He didn't open his eyes as I towel-dried his hair, then wrapped the towel around his shoulders. I took his hand and helped him stand, wrapping another towel around his waist. He tucked the end in so that he didn't have to hold it up and stood there, shivering, and looking utterly pitiful.

"Wait here," I instructed him. He nodded, so I left him there and went to his room, rummaging through his drawers until I found some underwear, a pair of plaid pajama pants, a black t-shirt, and a green sweatshirt. I brought them to the bathroom and found Roger staring at himself in the mirror.

Not admiring, studying... Just... staring.

I walked into his view so I wouldn't startle him when I spoke.

"I brought you some clothes."

He met my eyes in the mirror and nodded.

"Do you want to get dressed?"

Another nod.

"Alright, I'll leave you to that."

I began to step out, but he grabbed my arm. I turned.

"What's up?" I asked.

He just pulled me in and hugged me, burying his head in my shoulder as he started to cry again. I wrapped my arms around him, rubbing his back and whispering what I hoped were calming words.

Eventually he let me go.

"Are you gonna get dressed now?"

He nodded, still not speaking.

"Alright."

I left him there, shutting the door, and changed my own clothes, which were rather wet from the ordeal.

When I came out, Roger was standing in the hall, looking a bit lost, though (thankfully) wearing the clothes I'd brought him.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him.

He shook his head mutely.

"Are you tired?"

"A... a little..." he responded, finally deciding to speak.

"Do you want to go to bed?" I asked him when he still didn't move.

He shook his head, looking at the floor.

I sighed. "What do you want to do?"

He shrugged, not looking up.

It was hard to be frustrated with him when he was so broken.

I reached out a hand, which he took, and led him to the couch. We sat, and he immediately rested his head on my shoulder. I pulled a blanket over our laps and rested my cheek on his head.

We just sat like that for a while. I was comfortable, and he must have been as well, because it wasn't long before I heard light snoring.

Only in Roger could snoring be endearing.

I smiled slightly, thinking what a sight we must look, and absurdly hoping that Collins wouldn't come home tonight, as I finally fell asleep myself.


End file.
